Note this may need editting, I wrote it between 12:30 and 1:10. I am going to bed, hope it is good, otherwise I will work more on it tomorrow.


Sweet Sorrow
Flavius pulled himself from his grand bed. The silk sheets fell smoothly to the marble floor and pooled at his feet. Slowly he padded to his armor, already laid out by the servants. Slowly he turned to allow his servants to strap him into his armor. A sense of well being and dread washed over him at the same time. He was protected, but he never wore his armor without good reason. Soon he would be fighting for his life yet again. His bed stirred. His wife emerged wrapped in a silken towel. To his eyes she was radiant and beautiful beyond comparison. In his opinion none could match her wit, beauty, laughter or sadness. She had begged him to stay home, to let his lord down this one time, but he could not. He was a soldier and he would remain a soldier until the end of his days.
“Please don’t go,” pleaded his wife, her soft features marred by her grief.
“I must go, I cannot stay while the men fight,” he explained, “I must go my wife, but I promise to return to you. If for nothing else I will return for you my love.” She grasped him fiercely; her tears fell and slid down his armor. The stood there for several minutes. Slowly they released and ended their fierce embrace.
“Return to me,” she pleaded, “return for the children’s sake.”
“I will,” he assured her as he slowly lifted his helm from its marble pedestal. The metal gleamed as he lifted it to his head. He thought of all the reasons to fight hard and return home, nobody would stand before him today and if they did.
The great horns of the city blew the call to arms. He grabbed his gladius and strode quickly to the great doors. He flung them open and the morning sun poured in, he hesitated and then descended the stairs. The army was assembling. The Auxilia and Legionaries were already assembled. The cavalry were only now forming up. It was an impressive force. The armor gleamed, the spears glittered, the horses stirred. It would be a fierce day.
He walked slowly to his unit. The best trained and equipped legionaries in the whole army. They were supposed to be equally equipped, but everybody knew this unit was special. No unit could boast of as many victories. The troops were all seasoned veterans, most were getting old fighting men, but none would stand down. The unit had never taken on new recruits and so had dwindled from its original 1000 to about 100 men.
“March!”
Every soldier turned in unison towards the gates and began to march, a slow steady march. Flavius’s unit was near the front, nearly at the gate. Once they reached the gate he could see the army arrayed against them. A great force, many pikemen and cavalrymen. The legion lined up and prepared for battle. The general, Quintus Scipio rode up and down the lines inspiring his troops. The army slowly marched forward until within bowshot of the enemy. Only then did Scipio slip off of his horse to gather his weapons; his scars helped inspire the soldiers. Flavius watched him prepare and then finally climb back up onto his horse and check the lines.
He roared.
The whole army shuddered, the infantry quickly marched forward, the cavalry charged the opposite cavalry and the Auxilia unleashed their missiles. The land fell under shadow as they passed overhead. Flavius had never seen so many missiles, Ballista bolts, arrows, stones all of them were there and not a patch of sky seemed to be empty.
Flavius’s unit was the first within Pila range. He slowly retrieved one of his Pila and smoothly, professionally pulled it back thrusting his shield forward. When he heard the other soldiers arrive beside him he flicked the Pila with deadly accuracy, he struck a pikeman straight in the face. His Corinthian helm fell ajar as he slid down, his pike clattering to the ground. Flavius immediately ducked behind his shield.
Thunk
A javelin struck his raised shield and fell away, he dodged death yet again. HE lowered his shield, nothing left now but to.
“Charge!” his centurion yelled and the whole unit sprung forward, like a caged animal finally set free.
He ran forward and tapped the pikes aside, he could hear his comrades stop and slide along the pikes, their blood splattered his back. No matter he had made it, he was past the pikes. He stabbed the pikemen around him and was astounded, they were all mere boys. Not one was fully grown. He would have nightmares if he survived.
He felt his heart pumping, his mind had lost control, he was a monster. His training and bestial rage had taken over and he was slashing, stabbing and bashing his way through the young Greek boys. By the time the Greeks finally ran he was covered in blood and starting to cool down. The rage receded and he slowly shook himself free of his instincts.
He was alive.
He had killed too many today, boys were piled up around his feet. He had lost his shield and stood aching from the blows he had taken. His arm was slit open, but he did not notice. He was standing, alone, on a carpet of bodies.
He could remember slashing, stabbing, parrying and beating his way through the mass of bodies, but why didn’t he die? His enemies had been skillful, they were trained well for their age, yet he lived. Why?
The sun was quite a ways into the sky, where had the time gone? One minute he had been fighting the next he was standing upon his enemies and the sun was halfway to its zenith. No matter, he was going home. No more war, he had served in his last battle, survived his last commander, saved his last city. His wife would rejoice, his unit would despair, but there was nothing left to do. He had lost all taste for battle.